The Delivery Man
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Dixonne. AU. Fluffy. Michonne's at home, waiting on a special parcel to arrive. She doesn't expect that meeting the delivery man might be the nicest part of her day. (Despite the unavoidable innuendo, this is not smut.)
**AN: This is just a little Dixonne one-shot that was requested. It's just something cute.**

 **I own nothing from the Walking Dead.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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Like any day that she was working from home, Michonne was busy trying to juggle keeping an eye on the girls, finishing the work she had to do to justify her not being at the office, and taking care of some of the tasks that she often put off too long around the house. As a result of having a few too many irons in the fire, she felt like she was failing at everything she was attempting.

Anjelica was still in her pajamas, despite it being far past the hour when she should be dressed. She was feeding herself bites of cold pancake off her plate every time she passed the coffee table. Celine was in her pajamas too, already napping, but given the girl's age, Michonne could forgive herself more for not changing her clothes. The breakfast dishes hadn't been done—when her nanny would have surely had them done by this hour if she were there to tend the girls—and Michonne couldn't say she'd accomplished a third of what she expected to have done on her paperwork by that time.

If she thought about it too long, she'd give herself a migraine.

Despite the current chaos around her, though, Michonne was confident she had her life together. At least, she had it as together as anyone around her did. Things might not be perfect at the moment, but they _would_ be perfect. Even if the dishes piled up and toys soon overtook her living room floor as Anjelica dragged out one and then another, eventually it would be bedtime. Michonne would feed the girls, wash them, and tuck them in. And as soon as they were sleeping peacefully? She'd turn her home back into the veritable show-home that it managed to be a few hours out of every day. It didn't really matter that those hours, when they happened, were while everyone was sleeping.

Today she was waiting for something special, a gift to herself, and that was the only reason that she was home at all on a day that she should be in the office. She'd hoped to have the house in order when the delivery arrived, but at this moment she'd settle for simply having the house standing. She would hope, instead, that whoever was sent to deliver her new artwork would reserve judging her.

"Anj...Angie...Anjelica..." Michonne called from her position at her desk. Her daughter stopped her play for a moment and turned her eyes to Michonne. "Are you done with your pancake?" Michonne asked. "Because—if you're done with it then I'm going to put it in the kitchen."

Anjelica, interested in eating from almost the moment she was born, didn't seem to care for the threat of Michonne's disappearing-pancake trick. She left her toys for the moment, returned to the coffee table, and responded to Michonne's question by cramming two of the pieces of pancake into her mouth at once. Michonne winced, not even wanting to imagine what the pancake must taste like by now. But Anjelica didn't seem to care.

"Stay there," Michonne said, pointing her finger at her. "Stay there until you're done. When you leave that table? When you...when you walk away? Anjelica...when you leave that table? Mommy is putting the pancake in the kitchen."

Anjelica chewed and stared at Michonne. Her daughter had a very intense stare for a two and a half year old. Of course, Michonne had heard the same about herself, so she didn't question where she got it.

When the doorbell rang, Michonne got up and smoothed her clothes. Jeans and a button down shirt for the day weren't as nice as what she might wear to the office, but at least she'd gotten out of her pajamas. If she hadn't been expecting the delivery that might not have ever happened. She stopped and checked the bassinette where Celine was still sleeping. Then she turned and pointed her finger at her eldest who was hugging her cup against her chest and watching every move that Michonne made.

"Stay here," Michonne said. "Just a minute. Stay here. I'll be right back."

Michonne nearly ran to the door. She slipped once, thanks to running in socks on her well-cleaned hardwoods, and caught herself just before she might have landed on her knees in the hallway. She unlocked the door and opened it to find the delivery man standing on her porch with the large, brown-paper wrapped parcel. For a moment, she figured that the best thing she could say about him was that he didn't look like the kind of man who would judge her because there was some disarray to her home.

Still, even though he was rather unkempt and looked like he might moonlight as a member of some biker gang, he had nice eyes. He nodded his head at her.

"Mrs. Williams?" He asked.

"Miss," Michonne corrected.

He grunted in response. He wasn't interested in knowing anything about her. He was being paid to deliver a package. Nothing more and nothing less.

"Do I need to sign something?" Michonne asked.

"No, they didn't request no signature," the man said. "But—you prob'ly gonna want me to bring this inside. It's not too light."

Michonne nodded, checked her own manners for leaving him standing there with the heavy frame resting on his foot, and backed up to make room for him.

"It's going just down the hall," she said. "Down the hall and to the right? There's a little hall? The last room. I'm hanging it in there."

He laughed to himself. His lip curled up in a half-smile.

"Guess you know what it is," he said. "Heavy. Picture?"

"Painting," Michonne said. "Well—a reprint. But a nice one."

"Frame feels like it's pretty solid," the man commented.

"It's cherry," Michonne said. "Or at least it should be."

The man shimmied past her, carrying the frame inside, and she watched as he carefully maneuvered it down the hall and followed her directions to find her bedroom. Her room, at least, was one that Anjelica hadn't been in today. It would be fairly neat. Michonne was pretty certain that she could hang the painting herself, especially since she did a good bit of the handiwork around her house after her ex-husband's decision to bail out of their marriage entirely, but she humored the man. He seemed the kind that might think a woman needed help doing every little thing.

"I already put the hanger up," Michonne called ahead of her as she followed him. "You can just rest it against the wall. I'll—get to it."

She stopped a moment, letting him get farther ahead, and she ducked into the living room to check on her youngest once more and to remind Anjelica that she was supposed to stay put in the room for just a little longer. Then Michonne slipped down the hall and found the man unwrapping the painting.

At first she was irritated. He didn't look like the kind of man who could appreciate art. He looked like the kind of man whose idea of a nice painting was one of dogs playing poker and smoking cigars. And he hadn't asked permission to tear the paper off her painting and unveil it for her himself.

But Michonne bit her tongue. She wanted the exchange over as quickly as possible. She'd thank him, tip him, and send him on his way. And then? She could get back to her day—part of which was going to be spent cleaning dried syrup off the table and floor.

The man lifted the painting onto its hanger, adjusted it, and stepped back. He stepped forward again, adjusted it a little more, and then stepped back once more. Michonne hung back, right where she was, assuming that he'd continue this way until he was sure the picture was straight. She wasn't sure why it should take him so long to do that, but she was willing to wait. As long as it didn't take too long.

Then he looked at her, chewing on his lip.

"This ain't a painting," he said.

"It is," Michonne replied. He shook his head.

"No, it isn't," he responded. "This is done with a computer. Not with a brush and paint. It's not that kinda painting."

"It's digital painting," Michonne said, a little surprised that he was even looking closely enough to notice that.

He hummed at her.

"Nice though," he said. "Peaceful. Good for a..." He looked around him. Michonne thought she actually saw him blush. Maybe he'd been so wrapped up in what he was doing that he hadn't even realized where she'd asked him to hang the painting. He was just now aware that he was in her bedroom. He cleared his throat. "Good for a—ya know, a room like this."

Michonne didn't have a chance to respond to him before she heard the sound of feet coming, fast, on the floor. Before she could bark out any kind of warning that Anjelica shouldn't run, the girl had already reached the room. In hand she had the pancake plate, now empty of everything but syrup residue, and she held it out to Michonne as she came straight for her.

"I done! Mama! I done," she announced, proudly showing off her teeth in a smile of self-satisfaction.

Michonne took the plate, since Anjelica wouldn't rest until she did, and then she looked back at the man when she heard him address her daughter.

"Hey there," he said.

Michonne held her breath. In general, she always felt her body tense when anyone spoke to her children, no matter how kind their tone, until she was sure of the type of interaction that would unfold. Anjelica, though, had never met a stranger in her whole life.

"Hi," she responded, not hiding herself behind Michonne as many children her age might have done.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"Anj," Anjelica offered.

"Anjelica," Michonne told him, not sure that he would get much from Anjelica's own personal style of speech.

The man smiled, offering Michonne first and then Anjelica the half-lip smile that seemed to be the only one that he had.

"You like that picture there?" He asked, pointing to the painting. Anjelica, for her part, walked over to him and examined the picture on the wall. She took this job as seriously as she took any of them. "Can you see it?" He asked. He bent down some and looked up at the picture. "You're too short to see it good there. Here—I'll give you a better view."

He reached his hands out to her and Anjelica allowed him to pick her up. She held her arms out, as she always did, to signal to him that she accepted his offer to lift her. He did, resting her on his hip.

"You like that?" He asked, pointing to the picture again.

Anjelica hummed her approval and dramatically nodded her head. Michonne knew, though, that Anjelica would approve of anything if asked nicely enough.

"You think it's up there straight? Or it's crooked?" He asked.

Anjelica furrowed her brows at him and Michonne bit her lip not to laugh. Now she was as curious as anyone to see how the rest of the interaction might go.

"Is it straight? Or crooked?" He asked again. Anjelica only deepened the concern on her features. The man found this amusing, though. "I think it's pretty straight. Don't you? Think it's straight?" With the change in his tone, there also came a change in Anjelica's expression. She smiled again, showing him her full collection of teeth, and nodded at him.

He turned to Michonne, her daughter still on his hip, and gave her the smile again.

"You satisfied?" He asked.

This time Michonne gave him a smile of her own and nodded. He hummed.

"I see the resemblance," he said. "And—I reckon my work's done here. I—uh, know my way out."

And to show that he did, he started out of the room and down the hall. Pancake plate in hand, Michonne followed him and wondered how long he'd carry the girl before he realized he was still holding her or before Anjelica let him know that she wasn't supposed to go outside in her pajamas. Of course, knowing Anjelica, she'd more than likely tell him to wait while she got her shoes to go with him—the truck would win her over if his smile didn't.

He stopped at the door, though, and put Anjelica down. He leaned down, closer to her height, and told her that it was nice to meet her. In return, she waved at him when he waved at her. He opened the door to step outside and it was only then that Michonne called to him. She wasn't prepared for what she might say, though, so she only managed to bark at him to "Wait" before she held a finger up to him. He nodded and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind him, but she assumed that she would find him there when she returned.

Michonne traded the pancake plate for her wallet in the kitchen and sent Anjelica back to the living room. Then she made her way out on the porch where the man was standing, just at the bottom of her steps, smoking a cigarette.

"Hope you don't mind," he said. "I—uh—won't put it out out here or nothing. Got an ashtray in the truck."

"I don't mind," Michonne said. She burrowed in her wallet and found the money she planned to use to tip him. On second thought, she added a little to it and then offered it to him. He took it and thanked her sincerely as she stepped off the step to stand beside him. "You were very nice to her," Michonne said. "You didn't have to be. I'd have tipped you anyway."

He smiled. Not at her. Not at anything really. Maybe just at the memory of the friendly toddler.

"Cute kid," he said. "I like kids. Best kinda people there is. She's got a pretty smile. She uh—looks like you."

Michonne was almost taken aback. Was the compliment for her or for her daughter? She wasn't sure. She wasn't even positive if he knew for sure.

"If you like kids," Michonne said, "then you should have waited a little longer. My other daughter's taking a nap."

"Other daughter?" He asked, raising his eyebrows at her. She was used to the reaction. She knew as soon as she revealed Celine's age, she would get another expression complete with raised eyebrows.

"Celine's eight months old," Michonne said.

He did raise his eyebrows, but he didn't say anything. He just nodded and took a drag on his cigarette.

"Nice family," he said. "Nice house. Nice picture." He laughed to himself at his inability to find another word and Michonne couldn't help but echo the laughter.

"My husband didn't think so," Michonne said, immediately wondering what had possessed her to say such a thing—and what possessed her to stay, standing on the sidewalk, talking to the delivery man while Anjelica peered at her through the blinds from the living room.

But if he noticed, he didn't say anything about her words being out of line.

"Some people—just ain't smart," he said. He finished his cigarette and put it out by pinching it between his fingers and twisting. Certain it was no longer burning, he pocketed it. He was right, though. For as educated as her ex-husband might have been, he wasn't always the smartest man. Especially not when it came to understanding what life would require of him once he became a father. "Take care," he said. "Thanks...again. For the tip?"

Michonne nodded at him and he started toward the truck. It was the most commonly used delivery company in town. It was local and Michonne always tried to use it because she knew she was giving jobs to people she knew—people in her community.

But suddenly, she had a desire to know this person a little _better_.

"What's your name?" She asked.

He stopped, turned back, and hummed in question.

"Your name?" Michonne asked. She felt silly, suddenly, asking him for such a thing, but she wanted to know. Even if she couldn't explain it to herself, she wanted to know. "You didn't tell me your name. For—I want to give you good review."

He smiled and looked satisfied—but something in his expression made Michonne wonder if he believed her.

"Dixon," he said. "Daryl. You call. They'll—uh...they'll know where to find me. _Miss_ Williams."

"Michonne," Michonne said quickly. He smiled and nodded his head at her.

"Michonne," he repeated. She liked the way that her name sounded, drawn out by his accent.

He waved at her, then, and headed for his truck. She waved at him too and repeated his name three times to make sure that it stuck in her mind through whatever chaos might meet her when she opened her door again and likely had to deal with Anjelica's chatter—and a waking Celine—before she got anywhere to write it down.

Her day was going to be busy. Every day was. But she had a feeling that she'd find a little time, somewhere, to make a call about a certain delivery man. And if she had to? Just to get another chance to make some conversation with him—and maybe even work up the courage to suggest something more—she might find a little energy, somewhere, to do a little shopping.

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 **AN: Please note that I do know that the show made Michonne the mother of Andre. I, however, always write her as the mother of daughters, as the comics described her to be.**


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